Red Eyes: Street Thoughts

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


Lamar took a chocolate drumstick out of the waist high freezer and spun out the door, leading with his shoulder.

“Be back on Friday.” he called back to Ashish.

The Indian man didn't say anything, returning only a long suffering look. As Lamar turned away he saw him come to the front of the counter and pick up the empty bag of chips off the ground.

Opening the top of the package, he slid the ice cream cone out and let the wrapper flutter down into the gutter. He ate it while he walked. For all the bullshit, he liked Ashish. They'd never be friends but the man's resentment was honest and as long as he wasn't pushed too far, he'd be reliable.

He mused over the information he'd learned. If a cop had snuffed J.J., that changed things. Why would he have cut up J.J though? Every Likton cop already had a license to shoot a black man for being black. No, this was something else. The kind of savagery it would take to butcher a man was weird and raw even for a city like this one. Death was normal. Torture was not.


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Lamar watched Ashish sigh before the Indian man replied. “If I answer your questions, will you just …

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